On the fifth morning that succeeded the breaking of the storm, described
in the last chapter, the sun rose in gorgeous splendour and shone upon a
sea that was clear and burnished like a sheet of glass. The wind had
ceased suddenly, and a perfect calm prevailed; but although no breath of
air ruffled the surface of the deep, the long swell rose and fell as if
the breast of ocean were still throbbing from its recent agitation.
All along the east coast of England this swell met the shore in a
succession of slow-rolling waves, which curled majestically over, and
appeared almost to pause for a moment ere they fell, with deep solemn
roar, in a magnificent burst of foam.
Everywhere the effects of the storm were painfully evident. Wrecks
could be counted by the dozen from some of the bold headlands that
commanded an extensive view of the shore. The work of destruction was
not yet over. The services of our lifeboats could not yet be dispensed
with although the fury of the winds had ceased.
It is a mistake to suppose that when a gale has ceased, all danger to
man and destruction to his property is over. We are apt to attribute
too much influence to the winds. Undoubtedly they are the origin of the
evil that befalls us in storms, but they are not the _immediate_ cause
of the wholesale destruction that takes place annually among the
shipping of the kingdom. It is the mighty hydraulic force of the sea,--
the tremendous lifting power of the waves, that does it all.
Although the storm was over and the wind had gone down, the swell of the
ocean had not yet ceased to act. On many a headland, and in many a
rocky bay, brigs, schooners, barques, and ships of large size and stout
frame, were that day lifted and battered, rent, torn, riven, and split
by the sea as if they had been toys; their great timbers snapped like
pipe-stems, and their iron bars and copper bolts twisted and gnarled as
if they had been made of wire.
The hardy men of Deal were still out in those powerful boats, that seem
to be capable of bidding defiance to most storms, saving property to the
nation, and earning--hardly earning--salvage for themselves. The
lifeboats, too, were out,--in some cases saving life, in others, saving
property when there were no lives in danger.
How inadequate are our conceptions of these things when formed from a
written account of one or two incidents, even although these be
graphically described! How difficult it is to realise the actual scenes
that are presented all along the coast during and immediately after each
great storm that visits our shores.
If we could, by the exercise of supernatural power, gaze down at these
shores as from a bird's-eye point of view, and take them in, with all
their stirring incidents, at one glance; if we could see the wrecks,
large and small--colliers with their four or five hands; emigrant ships
with their hundreds of passengers--beating and grinding furiously on
rocks that appear to rise out of and sink into a sea of foam; if we
could witness our lifeboats, with their noble-hearted crews, creeping
out of every nook and bay in the very teeth of what seems to be
inevitable destruction; if we could witness the hundred deeds of
individual daring done by men with bronzed faces and rough garments, who
carry their lives habitually in their hands, and think nothing of it; if
we could behold the flash of the rockets, and hear the crack of the
mortars and the boom of minute guns from John o' Groat's to the Land's
End, at the dead and dark hours of night, when dwellers in our inland
districts are abed, all ignorant, it may be, or thoughtless, in regard
to these things; above all, if we could hear the shrieks of the
perishing, the sobs and thanksgivings of the rescued, and the wild
cheers of the rescuers; and hear and see all this at one single glance,
so that our hearts might be more filled than they are at present with a
sense of the terrible dangers of our shores, and the heroism of our men
of the coast, it is probable that our prayers for those who "go down to
the sea in ships" would be more frequent and fervent, and our respect
for those who risk life and limb to save the shipwrecked would be
deeper. It is also probable that we might think it worth our while to
contribute more largely than we do to the support of that noble
Institution whose work it is to place lifeboats where they are wanted on
our coasts, and to recognise, reward, and chronicle the deeds of those
who distinguish themselves in the great work of saving human life.
Let us put a question to you, good reader. If France, or any other
first-rate Power, were to begin the practice of making a sudden descent
on us about once a month, on an average, all the year round, slaying
some hundreds of our fishermen and seamen each time; occasionally
cutting off some of our first-class emigrant ships, and killing all on
board--men, women, and children,--thus filling the land with repeated
wails of sorrow, with widows and with fatherless children: What would
you do?
What!--do you say that you "would fortify every island on the coast,
plant Martello towers on every flat beach, crown every height with
cannon, and station iron-clads in every harbour and bay, so that the
entire coast should bristle with artillery?" That sounds well, but what
guarantee have we that you really would act thus if France were to
become so outrageous?
"Common sense might assure me of it," you reply.
So it might, and so it would, if we had not evidence to the contrary in
the fact that our country _is_ thus assailed month after month--year
after year--by a more inveterate enemy than France ever was or will be,
and yet how little is done to defend ourselves against his attacks,
compared with what might be, with what _ought_ to be, done!
This enemy is the storm; but, like France, he is not our _natural_
enemy. We have only chosen in time past to allow him to become so. The
storm has been wisely and beneficently ordained by God to purify the
world's atmosphere, and to convey health and happiness to every land
under heaven. If we will not take the obvious and quite possible
precautions that are requisite to secure ourselves from his violence,
have we not ourselves to blame?
There are far too few harbours of refuge on our exposed coasts; the
consequence is that our fishing-boats are caught by the storm and
wrecked, and not unfrequently as many as a hundred lives are lost in a
few hours: Who is to blame? A large vessel goes on the rocks because
there is no lighthouse there to give warning of danger; a post has been
neglected and the enemy has crept in: Who neglected that post? After
the ship has got on the rocks, it is made known to the horrified
passengers that there are no ship's lifeboats aboard, neither are there
any life-belts: Whose blame is that? Still there seems hope, for the
shore is not far off, and anxious people line it; but no ordinary boat
can live in such a sea. There is no rocket apparatus on this part of
the coast; no mortar apparatus by which a line might be sent on board:
Why not? The nearest lifeboat station is fifteen miles off: Whose fault
is that? Is the storm our enemy here? Is not selfish, calculating,
miserly man his own enemy in this case? So the ship goes to pieces, and
the result is that the loss of this single vessel makes 60 widows and
150 fatherless children in one night! not to speak of thousands of
pounds' worth of property lost to the nation.
If you doubt this, reader, consult the pages of the _Lifeboat Journal_,
in which you will find facts, related in a grave, succinct,
unimpassioned way, that ought to make your hair stand on end!
Thoughts strongly resembling those recorded in the last few pages filled
the mind and the heart of Bax, as he stood on that calm bright morning
on the sea-shore. It was a somewhat lonely spot at the foot of tall
cliffs, not far from which the shattered hull of a small brig lay jammed
between two rocks. Tommy Bogey stood beside him, and both man and boy
gazed long and silently at the wrack which lined the shore. Every nook,
every crevice and creek at the foot of the cliff was filled choke full
of broken planks and spars, all smashed up into pieces so small that,
with the exception of the stump of a main-mast and the heel of a
bowsprit, there was not a morsel that exceeded three feet in length, and
all laid side by side in such regular order by the swashing of the sea
in and out of the narrower creeks, that it seemed as if they had been
piled there by the hand of man.
They gazed silently, because they had just come upon a sight which
filled their hearts with sadness. Close beside a large rock lay the
form of an old white-haired man with his head resting on a mass of
sea-weed, as if he were asleep. Beside him lay a little girl, whose
head rested on the old man's breast, while her long golden hair lay in
wild confusion over his face. The countenances of both were deadly
pale, and their lips blue. It required no doctor's skill to tell that
both were dead.
"Ah's me! Tommy, 'tis a sad sight," said Bax.
Tommy made no reply for a few seconds, but after an ineffectual effort
to command himself, he burst into tears.
"If we had only been here last night," he sobbed at length, "we might
have saved them."
"So we might, so we might, Tommy; who knows? Some one should have been
here anyhow. It seems to me that things ain't well managed in these
days. They haven't half enough of appliances to save life, that's a
fact."
Bax said this somewhat sternly.
"Whose fault is it, Bax?" said Tommy, looking up in his friend's face.
"Ha, Tommy," replied the other with a smile, "it don't become the like
o' you or me to say who's to blame. You're too young to understand the
outs and ins o' such matters, and I'm too ignorant."
The boy smiled incredulously. The idea of Bax being "ignorant" was too
gross and absurd to be entertained for a moment, even although stated by
himself.
"Well, but," urged Tommy stoutly, "if things _are_ wrong, it's clear
that they ain't right, and surely I've a right to say so."
"True, lad, true," returned Bax, with an approving nod; "that's just the
point which I'd like you and me to stick to: when we see things to be
wrong don't let's shirk sayin' so as flat as we can; but don't let us
go, like too many shallow-pates, and say that we know _who's_ wrong and
_why_ they're wrong, and offer to put them all right on the shortest
notice. Mayhap" (here Bax spoke in a soft meditative tone, as if he had
forgotten his young friend, and were only thinking aloud) "mayhap we may
come to understand the matter one of these days, and have a better right
to speak out--who knows?"
"That I'm certain of!" cried Tommy, in a tone and with an air that made
Bax smile despite the sad sight before him.
"Come, lad," he said, with sudden energy, "we must get 'em removed.
Away! and fetch a couple of men. I'll arrange them."
Tommy was off in a moment, and Bax proceeded with gentle care to arrange
the dress and limbs of the old man and the child. Two men soon arrived,
and assisted to carry them away. Who they were no one knew and few
cared. They were only two of the many who are thus cast annually, and
by no means _unavoidably_, on our stormy shores.
Do not misunderstand us, good reader. Compared with what is done by
other lands in this matter, Britain does her duty well; but, compared
with what is required by God at the hands of those who call themselves
Christians, we still fall far short of our duty, both as a nation and as
individuals.